


Piggyback Rides and Flower Metaphors

by ficsandcatsandficsandcats



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:34:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23959270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficsandcatsandficsandcats/pseuds/ficsandcatsandficsandcats
Summary: Reader Request: could you do a little fluff piece of the reader getting injured so Jaskier lets her ride on his back through the forest and they're just being giggly cuties singing and admiring flowers and all that adorable stuff?
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader
Kudos: 16





	Piggyback Rides and Flower Metaphors

“You’re blowing this way out of proportion,” you grouse.

“You can’t walk on that ankle, Y/N, you’ll injure yourself further,”

Jaskier argues for approximately the 15th time.

“We’d be faster with me hobbling,” you mumble under your breath.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he says, sniffing disdainfully and readjusting his grip on your thighs. You were still berating yourself for the accident. You’d walked through woods your entire life without so much as a scratch and then the first day out with Jaskier you somehow manage to fall and sprain your ankle. It wasn’t even while you were doing anything impressive or interesting, just a sudden misstep and down you went. You’d fought him when he suggested he carry you, but he could be very stubborn and refused to go any further until you climbed on his back. You laced your arms together under his neck, his head right below your chin. Though your added weight slowed the pace he didn’t show other signs of struggle.

Injury aside, it was a lovely day. From your higher vantage point you could better appreciate the way the light filtered through the trees, casting radiant beams that caught on the lush, green foliage and flowers.

“Are you pouting up there?” Jaskier asks, suspicious of your silence.

“No, I concede defeat. But once I have two good ankles again you better watch yourself,” you say, your tone more playful than threatening.

“You have two splendid ankles, one just needs a bit of rest right now,” he says, craning his neck around to give you a brilliant smile. A thread of sunlight shifts through the branches at the same moment and illuminates his face. He is sunshine personified, and your heart does a little flip and, to your disgust, you find yourself giggling.

“What is it?” he asks, eager to learn the source of your amusement.

“Oh I was just thinking about how well your name suits you,” you answer.

“Really? I always thought Julian was a bit plain.”

“Your chosen name, Jaskier. Buttercup,” you explain.

“Ah yes, that was pretty good branding if I may say so myself, and I usually do,” he says, looking up at you to give you a little wink. You roll your eyes but you still laugh, a sound more beautiful than all of the applause in the world.

“What flower do you think I’d be? If I had to be one?” you ask.

“You would be a Félicité Parmentier,” he answers.

“A what?”

“It’s a rare breed of rose,” he explains, “Any beautiful woman can be a rose, but the Félicité Parmentier is a very special rose indeed.”

You rest your cheek against the top of his head, getting comfortable for whatever story he was about to tell.

“Like you, it has many layers. Over a thousand petals clustering together to make the most perfect blossom. You both share a softness that words do not do justice. The color’s gradients transition seamlessly from pale white to a rich, vibrant pink. You also contain many colors, many sides to your being, all beautiful in their different shades. When you smell it in the air it stirs the heart and brightens the senses but only a happy few ever get to witness its blooms.”

By the time he’s done talking your face is beet red and you’re grateful he can’t see you clearly.

“Well… that is… very well defended,” you say awkwardly. You were still adapting to the bard’s effusive declarations of your beauty, but it didn’t deter him in the slightest.

“You know,” he says, sensing your discomfort and kindly changing the subject, “I should thank you. This will make a wonderful song. I’ll have a change a few things of course.”

“Oh?”

“Nothing too big you understand. Nothing that makes you look poorly. Just might have to throw in a bear or a dragon or some looming threat. Also, your injury might get worse, but only in the story. I’ll let you keep the leg. Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Oh very well be difficult and keep both your legs. You probably won’t even let me write about you swooning my arms or offering me a kiss as a reward for my valor,” he sighs dramatically.

“Oh the kiss can stay, but I demand on making at least one part of your story accurate,” you say. There is a beat as Jaskier considers what you’ve said.

“You mean the kiss not the dragon, yes?”

Your laughter and the promise of a kiss quickens his pace.


End file.
